


All I Want For Christmas

by soulgyrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-03 03:18:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12739947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulgyrl/pseuds/soulgyrl
Summary: It's John and Rosie's first Christmas with Sherlock at 221B. With Mary's death and the incident at Sherrinford behind them, the three are looking forward to a little peace and happiness. When John and Mrs. Hudson decide that a real live tree would make the holiday season even more festive, the good doctor goes in search of the perfect specimens. Only now...he hasn't returned... and Sherlock is getting worried. And facing questions that just won't stay silent.  Should have gotten back to this sooner...but there just wasn't the time. Hope to finish it soon.





	1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

December 22nd, 7:10 pm

“So then…what do you think?” asked John Watson, as he placed a steaming cup of Darjeeling in front of his friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.

“Sorry…what do I what about…what,” Sherlock questioned, a slightly apologetic look on his face.

Watson threw his hands up in the air and turned away exasperated. “Did you even hear a _word_ of what I just said, or have I been talking to myself for the last fifteen minutes?”

Sherlock blew on his cup before taking a cautioned sip of the tea. He set the cup back in its saucer and turned to face John. “I _am_ sorry…it’s just this… case I’ve been working on. I’m _missing_ something…something _important_. I just can’t…see what it is. Yet. What is it you were asking me? Something about Mrs. Hudson?”

John sighed, gave Sherlock’s shoulder a slight pat before sitting opposite him at the table.  “What I was asking, was for your opinion on getting a real Christmas tree this holiday. Mrs. Hudson has expressed an interest in wanting a live tree herself…small sized, of course, and I offered to fetch it for her and thought maybe I could pick one out for us as well.”

Sherlock gave John one of his wide….and fake… grins. “I...ah...I _suppose_ that would be agreeable. Although… just how do you propose to get two Christmas trees back here to Baker Street from a tree lot? They wouldn’t fit in a cab and you can hardly handle both of them on the tube.”

“Stamford’s offered me the use of his truck. Problem solved. I don’t suppose you’d actually want to go with me? With Molly keeping Rosie for a couple of nights, I thought it would be a good time to get it done.”

Sherlock drained the last of his tea and stood. “You suppose right. No…no, John, I’ll leave the tree fetching to you if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’ll bring one home to rival that of Rockefeller Center. I _really_ do need to conduct more research on this case before Christmas.”

“As to that,” John started. “I thought we agreed to not take anything else on until after the holidays. So what is this about then?”

Sherlock walked over to the small table in the living room, sat, and opened his computer. “It’s not really a _new_ case. It’s the one about the ‘Vanishing Mum’ that we never really solved.”

John took his spot in his easy chair and opened the Evening Standard. “I thought Lestrade…and everyone else….was content with the conclusions we came to on that. _Why_ are you dredging it all back up? And why now”

 Sherlock sat back, steepled his hands, and rested his chin on the fingertips. “Because _I_ was never satisfied with the conclusion _you_ all came to. Lestrade was too eager to close the case and was far _too_ willing to accept _any_ answers in order to do so. It was just …wrong, all wrong. There’s too much of a gap in the story. I’ve got to…finish it.”

John sat the paper down and chuckled softly. “Well, I suppose there’s no stopping you. Once you’ve set your mind on something you turn a bit maniacal about it if I try, as well I know. And don’t give me that look. You know I’m right. Anyway, I’m taking the tube to Mike’s tomorrow after lunch to pick up the truck. I’ll head out looking for a tree straight away. I don’t suppose we have an ax or a saw of some sort lying about somewhere, do we?”

Holmes looked up quizzically at his partner. “An ax or a saw? What on earth do you need either of them for if you’re picking a tree out of a lot? And how do you propose to take an ax on the tube without causing suspicion?”

“Says the many who once rode with a bloody harpoon, “John mumbled.

“What’s that?” Sherlock probed.

“I said, in case I decide to go to one of those cut-your-own tree farms. I may do; haven’t been to one of them in ages. Probably not since I was a kid. We always got our trees from a place like that. Of course, Harry and I could never settle on one so our mum always ended up picking one out. And dad just knocked us about the head for fighting. I honestly don’t know if Harry and I ever agreed on _anything_.”

“There’s an ax in the basement,” Sherlock started. “Better make sure you put it in its case. Mrs. Hudson would know about the saw. I may be up late. You don’t mind do you?”

“Do I have a choice? Look, I’m going to go have a shower and I just might turn in early if you’re going to be so occupied anyway.”

“And….you’re upset with me again,” Sherlock muttered.

“No, Sherlock, I’m not upset. I’m tired. The clinic was insanely busy this week. No end of kids with runny noses coughing all over the place, half a dozen cases of pneumonia; two of which ended with the wretched souls going to hospital, three instances of strep throat, and one suspected case of meningitis. If you weren’t sick when you came into the clinic you probably were when you left.”

“Sounds…horrific,” Holmes answered, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“It is what it is. Anyway, do you need to use the toilet before I get in the shower?”

“No…no I’m good. Actually, I may not be here when you come out. I’ll be back before too late though.”

“Right then, “John replied, and made his way to the bathroom.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

December 23rd, 12:09 pm

 

Martha Hudson smiled as she carried a tray laden with various goodies for “her boys” up the stairs at 221B. They were the sons she never had, Rosie the “granddaughter” she loved beyond measure. The holiday season always found her especially cheerful and she had put together an extra-special lunch for Sherlock and John: her famous chicken salad on homemade rolls, pear and mandarin compote, and freshly baked scones with a pot of lemon curd from her own recipe. She’d send John down to fetch the tea tray.

“Hoo Hoo,” she said, giving the door leading into the kitchen a swift knock before letting herself in. “Lunch, boys. John, it’s quite nippy out there. I thought you’d better have something substantial in you before you go tree shopping. The wind! Bites right through you. And that snow we got overnight. Only a few inches here, but some of the rural areas got close to a foot. Make sure you dress warmly.”

“You’re too good to us, you know,” answered John rising out of his easy chair. “I’ll get Sherlock. He’s upstairs having a nap, although if you ask him what he’s doing he’ll say research. He’s been ‘researching’ all morning. The back of his eyelids, apparently, as every time I’ve checked in on him he was sawing logs.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “He will have his funny little ways, as well we know.”

“Umm, some of them not so funny,” John quipped.

“Perhaps, but would we really want him any other way? I mean it’s what makes him…well….Sherlock.”

“You’ve got me there. I’ll go fetch him. You will join us, won’t you?”

“I suppose I could. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense! We’d be delighted. And after all, you were kind enough to provide it.”

“Well then, I’ll go get the tea tray while you’re getting Sherlock. Be back in a flash.”

 

888888888888888888888

 

“Mrs. Hudson, you’ve outdone yourself again,” remarked John, leaning back in his chair.

Sherlock shook his head in agreement. “Yes, that lemon curd was excellent. Thank you.”

Their landlady stood, gathered the dirty things onto a tray, and carried them to the sink. “You’re most welcome, boys. What would I do without you?”

Sherlock gave a slight smirk. “You obviously managed quite well before we came along, so I think you’d be perfectly fine.”

At that he felt a sharp blow on his right shin and jumped just a fraction.

He looked across at John who was displaying the slightest shake of his head, a look of stern consternation on his face. He mouthed “not necessary” to his companion.

Sherlock quickly cleared his throat. “But of course we’re very grateful for all you do for us, Mrs. Hudson.”

She gave a giggle as she commenced to fill the sink with soapy water. “Oh, I know that. It’s just such a …well...comfort knowing you’re just above me should I ever need help, even if we don’t see each other for a few days.”

“All in all, it’s a perfect arrangement,” John stated. He rose from the table. “I’m off now, tree shopping. I’m going to grab my coat, gloves, and the ax. Anyone sure they don’t need anything as long as I’ll be out and about?”

Sherlock walked to and then opened, the fridge. “How’s the milk situation? Oh…there’s about two pints. That should suffice for now I’d think.”

“Right then. I’ll be off. Mrs. Hudson thanks again and Sherlock, I would suppose I’d be back by, oh say…five or so.”

“Five?” Sherlock repeated, genuinely puzzled. “It’s only,” and here he consulted his watch, “only ten minutes to one. You need four hours to purchase two trees? Where are you going, Norway?”

John rolled his eyes. “No, Sherlock, I’m not going to Norway! I just want to take my time and find the perfect tree, or trees, as it were. I want to find something nice for Mrs. Hudson and Rosie. I realize that sort of thing isn’t of any importance to you, but indulge me, please! And if do decide on one I’ve got to chop down myself, well that will take a bit longer.”

“Do be careful wielding axes about,” Mrs. Hudson started. “My friend Agatha Deerling’s husband Nigel lost two toes one Christmas chopping down a tree. Although, he always was quite clumsy and not very athletic, and you‘re...well…used to that sort of thing. I mean, being in the army and all.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock muttered and went to sit in his armchair near the fire. “And I suppose I could take out the tree lights…or decorations…or something ….while you’re gone. God knows I’m not going to make any more progress today on that  _case_. According to Lestrade, some of the files I need are mysteriously missing.”

John cleared his throat. “Still time to change your mind and come with me…if you’re afraid of being bored.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated “No”!

John donned his coat and gloves, grabbed the ax case by the sofa, and headed towards the door.

“Ta-ta,” he yelled as he descended the steps.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

“Why the hell is it so difficult to find a decent, bloody Christmas tree?” John Watson sputtered after he reached the confines of the truck, leaving yet another miffed owner without a tree from his lot. “That was the sixth place! I guess that’s what happens when you wait until practically the last minute; all the good ones are taken. I don’t need perfection, honestly, I don’t. I’d just like something without bloody gaping holes on every side! And you’re not helping,” he yelled at the radio, turning the switch and effectively cutting Bing Crosby off in the middle of “White Christmas”. In doing so he glanced at the clock.

“What the…it’s already past four and I told Sherlock I’d be back at five. Bugger this! Alright, tree farm it is. Do or die, I guess.” He consulted the list he had previously printed up and found that “Benjie Bottomly’s Beauties- Tree Farm” was less than two kilometers away.

He gave a little snort. “Okay then, Benjie old chap, treated you once or twice at the surgery, didn’t I? You’ve _got_ to have something for me!”

He pulled into the lot. A string of lights hanging on a small hut were blinking on and off. John entered the building. No one was there, but a large piece of cardboard was propped up on a desk with the message:

“Gone home for tea….

the house is the one you would have just passed

with the bright green shutters

if you need me, otherwise...on your honor.

All trees are fifteen quid no matter the size.

Kindly put the correct amount into can here on the desk.

 God bless and happy Christmas!”

 

John couldn’t help but smile. But, he decided, he wasn’t parting with any of his money before he had to see what old Benjie had to offer. He went back to the truck and followed the arrows pointing the way to the trees. He noticed the snow had started up again.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

Sherlock woke with a start, momentarily confused. The room had grown dark, the only light coming from the fireplace which, obviously, Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to refuel before she left for her own flat after clearing up the lunch things. Sherlock yawned, shook his head, and rubbed the back of his neck which had grown stiff from being flung backward on the chair for so long.

_What time is it? Shouldn’t John be back by now…_ were his first thoughts.

He had removed his watch earlier, so he headed towards the kitchen to check the time on the microwave, turning on various lights along the way.  

_Six-thirty? My god, how long have I been sleeping? It was what… one thirty when I sat down in that chair? I don’t remember another thing after John left. And anyway….where is he? Is he helping Mrs. Hudson with her tree? It’s awfully quiet down there. Maybe he stopped at Molly’s to see how Rosie’s getting on? Did he stop off at Stamford’s and decide to stay for dinner? Yes, yes that must be it. But why didn’t he call and tell me that? Like he has to, Sherlock, he’s a grown man and he can go anywhere he wants and stay as long as he pleases, it’s none of your concern. Is it? Do you want it to be? Why do you want it to be? Oh, damn it! I’m not going through this again_!

He found the leftovers from lunch in the fridge and grabbed a scone and the pot of lemon curd. A cup of tea reheated in the microwave completed his supper. He carried everything on a tray back to his easy chair…and turned and looked at John’s empty one. He stepped over to it and sat the tray down on the nearby stand. Hesitantly, he reached down and stroked the chair’s well-worn arm. He lowered himself into its comfort. The scent of the man enveloped him and he inhaled deeply. It was a mixture of Axe Tobacco and Amber deodorant (curious choice!), antiseptic (no doubt from the surgery), butter (??), and a fourth odor he couldn’t…quite…place. It was …manly. And then it hit him just _what_ it was…and… _oh_. He sat back as far as he could and looked across at his own seat.

_What is he thinking when he sits here looking across at me? Does he sit here and think anything of me at all? I wonder if he’s ever sorry he moved back here with Rosie? Never expressed that; could leave anytime he wants. Doesn’t appear to be discontent. Of course, we have our little ups and downs like any other…. Couple. I was going to say a couple. You’re not a couple_ _,_ _Sherlock. You know it’s been there though. That thought…in the back of your mind. Simmering….close to boiling once or twice….but you’ve always managed to suppress….anything. And when? When did you start thinking like this? Alright, maybe there always was….attraction…an…interest. But that was subconscious. Of course, it was. But when did it start filtering into your consciousness? When? You know when. It was when you worried about him the first time he didn’t come home when he said he would. In July, four months after he moved back. It’s all there, word for word, thought for thought in your mind palace. It’s just a door you take great pains to ignore._

_STOP THIS!_ Something screamed inside him. He jumped out of the chair and headed downstairs, calling out for Mrs. Hudson on the way.

888888888888888888888

“No he hasn’t been here, dear,” the woman shared. “I just assumed things were taking him a little longer than he expected. If he did decide to go to one of those cut-your-own places he may have had to travel a bit to get to one. Have you called the fellow he borrowed the truck from? Or maybe he stopped off at Molly’s?

“But it’s what now…..six-thirtyish? He might have called if he was going to be late.”

“Is this the first time he’s ever done this?”

Sherlock ran his hand across his brow and ruffled his hair a bit. Why did Mrs. Hudson have to ask that?

“No…no he’s done before, but… hell, I just thought with Christmas and having your tree...and ours…and all…. Well, I just expected he’d stick to his schedule. I guess I was wrong. I’ll go phone Stamford. And Molly.”

8888888888888888888888

“Hello, Mike? It’s Sherlock. Listen, have you seen John? Hmm…you were wondering too. No, and yes he did say five o’clock. I really don’t know where he went. He made a list of potential places to buy a tree and he had a couple of those chop-your-own spots on the list, too. No…no I haven’t tried his cell. I could do that though, couldn’t I? Absolutely… yes, if I get in contact with him, or when he arrives home, I’ll have him give you a ring. Yes. Right. Of course… you have a nice evening too, Mike. Goodbye.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop and sat at the small table in the living room. He logged on to his website intending to finish his article about the safest way to unthaw frozen blood…but he couldn’t type a word. He clicked off the site and, without even thinking, typed in the information that would lead him to John’s blog. For all his pooh-poohing and negative remarks thrown John’s way about it, he was secretly pleased with the whole business. He clicked on the most current story. It was a light and charming one about a lost, and then happily found, a puppy named Loki who belonged to Rosie’s favorite playgroup pal, Mia Williams. He finished it, clicked off, and was just about to shut the lid when he noticed an open “word” tab on the taskbar. He told himself that it was snooping, an invasion of privacy… but, then he consoled himself with the thought that there might be something telling within that would give him an idea where John might be.

He hit the tab and started reading. It appeared to be a work-in-progress blog entry, but this…this wasn’t like any of John’s usual blog entries. It started out as a combination of John reminiscing about Christmases past and of how much he was looking forward to his first one residing back at 221B with his daughter and Sherlock. He read on…

_…he feigns indifference saying he doesn’t really care if we have a live tree…or any tree… and pretends he has no excitement over the fact that our landlady, Mrs. Hudson_ _,_ _and I intend to decorate both flats to look as festive as possible. He also professes no interest in the exchange of gifts, but I am sure I saw a bit of the boy in him when I mentioned that I knew exactly what I was getting him this season. Those blue eyes of his sparkled in spite of himself, and they lit up much the same as they do when we start a particularly interesting murder case! That and he’s questioned me… several times now…if I prefer wool or mohair, and practically bit my head off last week when I pulled a box out from behind the sofa inquiring as to why it was there. He nearly knocked me over snatching it from my hands and hastily threw it into his room with the muttered announcement that it was something he was “holding for Mycroft to give to our mum”._

_Okay, Sherlock, whatever you say! And he never comes home empty-handed lately without something for Rosie’s stocking._

Sherlock laughed out loud and continued…

_And speaking of Rosie, I know she misses her mother. I miss her mother. At least, I definitely miss the intimacy. And just like that this has become something I know I am not going to post. I’m not talking about just sex. The hugging, cuddling, kisses. Just knowing someone is… there. And here’s where things get a little…sticky. Because there’s Sherlock._

_For the majority of his life, he claimed to be adverse to the idea of any sort of personal relationship (read: girlfriend/boyfriend).When we first met he, more or less, told me that he had been totally content living celibate before I came on the scene and intended to continue in that vein. Of course, there was that bogus lark with Janine, but…well. As to Irene Adler…that’s a whole different kettle of fish. Still a bit baffled on that front._

_And then there’s…me._

_I guess I’m just the flatmate that helps pay the bills. And brings in the clients, and fetches the groceries because he can’t be bothered. And worries about him when I can tell he’s feeling off…for whatever reason. No, Sherlock Holmes is far from the sociopath he tried so hard for so long to pretend to be. He is, without a doubt, the most forgiving person I have ever known. He has the patience of Job with both his wacko sister and Rosie. He’s a changed man since that Sherrinford debacle. And living with the man… Well, time and time again he has proven, through little chats we have and the camaraderie we share, that he cares. In exactly what capacity I’m not sure…as one would care for a brother (hmm…maybe not), a cousin, a close friend, something…more…_

Sherlock could read no further. He logged off and gently closed the lid. It was then he realized that tears were coursing down his cheeks and he quickly wiped them away.

“Where are you, John? Come home…please come home. I….I….miss you.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
6:11 pm

Pale moonlight was filtering down through the trees when John Watson first became conscious of his surroundings. The thought was groggily marching through his brain that it was dark and he was very cold….and that something in his lower extremities felt both frozen and on fire at once. He could not recall where he was…or how he got there.

  
_Why am I lying here in… the snow? …in the woods? God, I’m cold….so….cold. Got to get up. Oh, shite…my head…._

  
John tried to upright himself and found he could not. He reached his right hand downwards and quickly came upon the reason. Something large and hard was lying across his right thigh. He tried wiggling his legs and realized it was also across his left leg, just below the knee.

  
_What is this…it feels….a…a log…a branch?_

  
His mind cleared a bit.

  
_Oh god. It is a branch. It came down…on me. Shite. I can’t lay here like this. What time is it? I’m so….cold._

  
He tried shifting his legs…and screamed in agony.

  
_Fuck! What the hell… that hurts! I’ve got to do something though, I’ve got to._

  
He tried again and with the same result.

  
 _Alright… this isn’t working, maybe I need to go over how I got in this damn_ position _to begin with…see if that helps. Okay….the beginning. I’m….borrowing Mike’s truck. Why am I borrowing Mike’s truck? Trees. Christmas trees. Right. I’m…driving. A tree lot…no tree...no tree…driving…driving….Benjie’s….on your honor….I’m…driving some more….fork in the road….a sign. A sign. What does the sign say? I…I didn’t read the sign….too hurried. Okay….okay. Obviously, I came to a… an unsafe area? I have to move. I’ve got to move. Oh hell, my… leg._  
                                                                            ------------------------------------  
Sherlock stepped out of the shower and quickly toweled off. He debated between clean clothes and bedclothes. He really should …do something. He really should get some work done on his case…but…. 

  
_John…where are you? And I never…. I never took out those lights. That’s what I’ll do…yes. I’ll have them waiting…_

  
He opted for the bedclothes. The lights and decorations were probably in the basement somewhere….or the walk-in closet in John’s room. John’s. He’d check there first. Right after he called his cell. Something he both did… and did…not want to do.

  
_You should call him, Sherlock...or text. What if there’s a problem. And what if he’s just…out. Christmas shopping. What then? Or…with someone. And there it is, isn’t it? Maybe he’s got a date he didn’t make you privy to and you’d really not rather know._

He argued with himself for some time before deciding he needed a second opinion. He walked to the desk and picked up his cell.

  
“Mycroft.”

  
“Yes, Sherlock. What is it?”

  
“I was wondering…ah…do you know what time we’re to meet for Christmas dinner? At...with our parents, I mean.”

  
“I believe we were summoned for ten am. What, you didn’t receive one of mummy’s invitations?”

  
“I, ah. I believe…so. But I must have misplaced it.”

  
….silence…

  
“Mycroft…”

“Okay…what is it really, Sherlock? You didn’t call me at ah…eight thirty-seven to ask me that, did you?”

  
Sherlock sighed heavily into the phone.

  
“It’s…ah…John.”

  
“What about John, Sherlock.”

  
“He’s….he didn’t. Well, he said he would be back by five and, as you just stated, it’s eighth thirtyish and he’s not….back.”

  
“I wasn’t aware you two kept quite such close tabs on each other now that he has a child. Is it really necessary he report to you his whereabouts at all times? Perhaps he took his daughter out for the evening and things are just running later than he expected.”

  
Sherlock sat down heavily in a nearby chair. “Of course, he doesn’t have to tell me his every move,” he shouted, indignantly, “but he was Christmas tree shopping for us as well as Mrs. Hudson. That, and he had borrowed a friend’s truck who was expecting it back by now. And Rosie isn’t with John; she’s spending a few days with Molly.”

  
“Hmm….childless for the evening…a borrowed vehicle…good cover.” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Okay, so you think something’s amiss,” he continued in a more normal tone. “What did you intend I do about it, brother dear, call in MI 5? You’re the detective of the family. I’m sure you don’t need me to help you come to any definitive conclusions.”

  
“No, I do not!”

  
“Then why did you call me? You really are worried about him, aren’t you? I think you’re a lot more, ah… involved with this man than you’re letting yourself believe. You know, Sherlock, it hasn’t really been that long since Mary died, and an even shorter time since all that…unfortunate business with Eurus took place. Emotions are still running high. John has been left a relatively young widower…with a very young child. And you...” Mycroft sighed. “You have had your whole emotional universe turned topsy-turvy. The sad plight of our sister has brought to the surface feelings most people didn’t think you capable of. Of course, I’m not one of them. And I dare say there are a few others. Look, brother mine, from what I know of John Watson, he’s, well, someone who needs, or at least desires, to be in a relationship. And…his child is motherless. Those two reasons alone could mean he might possibly be… exploring… options. And to carry this further...perhaps your own feelings towards “romantic entanglement”, as you put it, are simply changing. We’re not getting any younger, Sherlock, either of us and perhaps it’s…well…it’s something to think about anyway. If anything is…smoldering there…at home…maybe it’s time to start adding a little fuel…or douse the flame and venture elsewhere.”

  
Mycroft stopped speaking and was met with more silence.

  
“Alright, if you’ve nothing more to add, then I bid you a pleasant evening, little brother. I’ll see you at the Holmes estate in a day or so. And, Sherlock…don’t worry, I’m sure Dr. Watson is fine.”

  
“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Sherlock put the phone down… then picked it back up and punched in John’s number.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

8:52 pm

John Watson was exhausted. For the last, well he didn’t really know how long it had been, but for what seemed like hours, he had been trying to wiggle his way out from under the branch that had him trapped on the cold December ground. He thought he had made a little headway moving his left leg, but he was so numb with pain and cold that he couldn’t be sure.

Then he heard it. His cell was ringing.

_Damn, where is it? Not in my coat pocket._

He listened more intently.

_The truck! It’s in the bloody truck! This is bad. Jesus, this is bad. I’m going to freeze out here. God, this can’t be happening. No one even knows where the hell I am._

He tried feeling around and behind him for something…anything he could use as a means of prying the branch off of his left leg. Nothing. The only thing that was going to help him at this juncture was his own strength and will.

He gritted, grimaced, and tried again. And then he did something he hadn’t done in years. He prayed.

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Martha Hudson had just finished dressing for bed when she heard the familiar knocking on her door.

“Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson?”

She yanked the door open. “Yes, Sherlock. What is it?”

“Now, I need you to think.” he began. “Did John tell you where he might be going? Did you see a list, did he...ah… mention the names of any of the places he might visit, anything…anything at all you can remember.”

“No, Sherlock, he didn’t. He stopped in on his way out and asked where the saw might be, I told him and he left. This isn’t looking good, is it? Are you sure he didn’t stop off anywhere else, maybe did a little Christmas shopping? Have you tried phoning him?”

“Yes, I did try and no answer. I _suppose_ it’s possible he took advantage of the situation and did some shopping. But he didn’t notify Stamford and that’s what’s nagging me. That’s out of character for him to do something like _that_. And it’s now after nine.”

Sherlock sighed, “Alright, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll let you get back to your…nightly administrations.”

“Sherlock,” she started, grabbing his arm as he turned, “you will keep me posted?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock went back to his flat. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom John shared with his daughter and went into the large walk-in closet. To his left, hung several little dresses in shades of pink, blue, and purple. To his right, John’s things. He ran his hand along a jacket. The small room smelled of him. He took a jumper off its hanger and ran the fabric across his cheek, inhaling deeply as he did so.

_Oh, God…what am I doing._

He quickly replaced the jumper and headed towards the boxes in the back. One, bulging and held together with duct tape, proclaimed “Christmas lights and things” written in red marker across its top. He grabbed the box and headed downstairs.

The box provided two strands of colored lights which proved to be in good working order, so he laid them on the living room table and put the box beside the couch. He wasn’t exactly sure where they were going to put the tree. The tree. When it arrived. _Where are you, John?_

He went to make another pot of tea, but by the time the kettle was boiling he had lost interest. He turned on the telly, but every channel annoyed him. He had to do something….something!

And then the phone rang.

“Hello…John?”

“Ah, no, Sherlock….it’s Molly. Actually, I was calling to see if John was there. I’ve been waiting for his call before I put Rosie down for the night. He’s usually done so by now. Sherlock…is something…wrong?”

Sherlock sighed deeply and pinched his eyes shut. How was he going to approach this?

“Sherlock….are you there?”

“Yes, yes, Molly…sorry. I…umm, okay, truthfully…I don’t know where John is. And quite frankly, I’m not sure if I should be worried or not. Mycroft doesn’t believe I should be. I don’t know if you knew anything about his plans for today, but he went out in search of a Christmas tree for us and one for Mrs. Hudson. He borrowed Mike Stamford’s truck and said he’d be back around five and…well, it’s after nine and he’s still not here.”

“Have you tried giving him a ring?”

“Yes, of course, I have,” Sherlock snapped…and then immediately apologized.

“Oh, god…Molly, I’m sorry. It’s just that…well, John isn’t answering, he hasn’t gotten in contact with any of us, and…quite honestly, I am getting a bit worried.”

“Could your brother help?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’ve tried him. He thinks I’m overreacting…apparently. I don’t know, maybe I am. But…no, I’m not. He might leave _me_ hanging, but he wouldn’t do that to Stamford and he _certainly_ wouldn’t do that to Rosie…or you.”

“What about Lestrade?”

“God, he’d probably send Anderson or Donovan to torture me.”

“I mean, ask him as a friend, Sherlock. You know he’d help you. And he has a vehicle. I’ll even call him if you’d like.”

“How could _you_ call him? Do you have his personal number?’

“Never mind that. Do you want me to call him or not?”

Sherlock walked over and sat down in John’s chair. He ran his free hand down the length of one of its arms and felt the rise of tears in his eyes.

“Sherlock,” Molly asked, “are you still there.”

The detective sniffed and hastily wiped his eyes.

 “Yes, yes, Molly I’m here. And yes, I would be most grateful if you would give Lestrade a ring.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

9:36 pm

Greg Lestrade had just settled on his sofa with his third double scotch of the evening when his cell rang.

“Piss off,” he replied in its general direction and took another large swig of his drink. The ringing finally stopped, and he resumed his channel surfing only to be disturbed…again…with more ringing. He totally ignored it.

“Ah, here we go,” he remarked to his cat, Mr. Whiskers, who had decided to join him. He let the animal settle in his lap before giving him a good scratch behind the ear.

“Come to watch some telly with daddy have you, my little love? How’s this episode of ‘Midsomer Murders’ sound? The feline started purring in way of reply, and his master had just begun adjusting the volume when, once more, the shrill sounds of the cell going off assaulted the DI’s ears.

“Bloody hell!” He bellowed, startling poor Mr. Whiskers. “I am sorry my sweet, but I had best see what this intrusion is about before I go bloody barmy.”

He gently placed the cat beside him on the sofa and reached across for his cell on the opposite end table.

The screen read “Call from Mycroft Holmes”. Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh no, don’t tell me… Sherlock’s gone and got himself smashed again,” he stated to Mr. Whiskers. He took the call.

“Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?”

“Hello, Gregory, yes. Are you busy? I…I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

“Um, yes, I suppose. What, you suspect Sherlock’s using again…or missing, run off to one of his bolt-holes?”

“Ah, actually, it’s John Watson who’s … missing. Well, I say missing, because Sherlock seems to believe he is.”

Lestrade grunted into the phone. “Go on.”

“The story is that John went out in search of a Christmas tree, or trees as it were as he was also acquiring one for the landlady, and was supposed to return around five pm and still has not done so.”

“Well…maybe he stopped for a drink, or had… other business to attend to. Wait, how was he getting two trees back to Baker Street?”

“And that’s the rest of the story. A friend provided him with his personal truck. That’s partly what’s worrying Sherlock. He doesn’t believe John would keep the vehicle longer than the time that had been arranged without contacting the owner first…which he apparently hasn’t done. Additionally, his daughter, Rosamund, is spending some time with Ms. Hooper who was expecting him to touch base with her this evening and he still has not phoned her yet either.”

“I see. Well, maybe he’s just taking advantage of the situation and enjoying a night out, or getting a few things done without the kiddo about. I mean, there could be several explanations for...this…that.”

“Yes,” Mycroft chuckled, “my feelings precisely. On the other hand, Sherlock is often right about these things.”

Lestrade knocked back the rest of his scotch before answering. “I’m still not understanding; what exactly do you expect me to do?”

“Oh, God,” Mycroft sighed, “I’m not exactly sure myself. Perhaps you could pay him a visit, talk to him, and see what you think. My conversation with him wasn’t very…productive. I’m afraid I may have dealt with him a bit… harshly. Gregory, I’m going to ask you something I feel I can because I know that you’re pals with Sherlock and value the friendship of both my brother and John Watson. Have you noticed anything between the two?”

“Well, they’re best friends…”

“Yes, yes, of course, but…I mean…anything more than that. Sentiment…perhaps.”

“I see. So, basically, do I think there’s anything in the way of an amorous nature taking place. I’ll be truthful with you…yes, and I mean yes, I have thought about it. But if you’re wondering if either of them has made me privy to… anything, then the answer is no. Of course, they’ve always seemed extremely close, right from the start, but I really didn’t put _too_ much thought into it until John moved back to Baker Street with his daughter. I told myself I was just being soppy about it, but if you’re sensing…something, too. You think that has something to do with John being, err, missing now, it is that it?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“But you’re concerned that if Sherlock _is_ starting to panic over it then this _might_ be a danger night for him.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Mycroft. I’ll go ‘round, have a little chat.”

“I’d be much obliged, Gregory, thank you.”

Lestrade rang off and addressed his feline companion. “Sorry my little one, but it looks like daddy has to run out again.”

88888888888

9:47 pm

With one last massive tug, John finally managed to work his left leg free of the branch that had held it prisoner for many a long hour. However, in doing so, the branch shifted its weight on his right leg causing him to wince, although fortunately, it had moved lower on his thigh which afforded him a bit more upper body movement. He had little feeling left in his feet and legs and none at all in his hands. Throughout this ordeal, he had relied on his army training to help him muster all his strength and the prayers he was sending up to supply the will to keep trying. And then, of course, there was Rosie…and Sherlock his greatest inspirations of all.

_Alright, Watson, it’s do or die. Up as far as you can get and shove!_

Putting his abdominal muscles to work, John rose up as far as he could and shoved on the branch with both hands. But his efforts yielded little results, and after only a few minutes of effort, he collapsed once again.

He lay there looking up at a pale moon shining down through the trees and realized that it had stopped snowing; one blessing anyway. _And at this stage of the game, I’ll take any blessing I can get._

He was thirsty, he needed to pee, and he was beyond cold now. Thank god, he had listened to Mrs. Hudson and dressed as warmly as he had. If he had not, he was certain hypothermia would have already set in by now. But he knew his luck wouldn’t hold forever out here. He figured it was somewhere around 2C. And, hopefully, Sherlock, Mike, Mrs. Hudson _…. someone_ …would realize he was missing and come looking for him. They had to. No one would be coming this way at least until tomorrow morning and he knew he would never last that long.

 

10:07 pm

“Hoo hoo, Sherlock? Detective Inspector Lestrade is here to see you.” A decidedly worried look was etched on the face of Martha Hudson. She was convinced that the unexpected, or so she assumed arrival of Lestrade could not be a good thing. Sherlock beckoned them both into the room.

Likewise, Sherlock felt his gut clench at the sight of his old friend. He hoped that his arrival meant that Molly had indeed contacted him and not that Lestrade was the bearer of news he didn’t want to hear. He was surprised but relieved when the inspector explained his visit.

“Yeah, your brother asked me to pop in. He says your concerned that John hasn’t returned from a shopping trip. Anything more you want to tell me about that?”

“ _Mycroft_ contacted you? Not Molly Hopper then?”

“Actually, I do have a missed call from her. Came through while I was on my way over here. I didn’t answer it due to driving. How did you know she was going to call me?”

“Because I asked her to. I didn’t think Mycroft took me seriously. I think something may have happened…to John.” Sherlock relayed to him his reasons why.

Lestrade sighed. “You’re right, that doesn’t sound like John not keeping in touch where Rosie is concerned. So, where do you propose we start looking?”

“I would think most of the places selling trees would be closed now,” offered Mrs. Hudson.”

“Some of the roads are a mess; there have been a couple of accidents that I know of,” Lestrade stated. “I hate to think about it, but maybe we should put in a few calls to some of the local hospitals.”

Sherlock sat down heavily and dropped his head into his hands.

“Yes, perhaps we should. Would…would you mind doing that, Inspector? I’ll…”

Sherlock stood and walked over to the table where John’s computer sat. He opened the lid and ran his fingers across the keys.

“I know he made a list. He’s always making lists and printing them off. Says it’s the only way he can remember to get everything he needs to do done now that he’s got the full responsibility of Rosie. Hopefully, he didn’t delete it.” Sherlock sat down, opened the lid, and logged on.

 

“While you're doing that, I’ll make those calls, see what I can find,” Lestrade added and walked out into the hallway.

Mrs. Hudson headed for the kitchen. “And I’ll…I’ll make us a pot of tea. Earl Grey, I think.”

 

888888888888888888

 

It took Sherlock less than a minute to find John’s folder marked “lists” and he started sorting through them.

_Damn, this man makes a list for practically every move he makes._

There were lists for work, for Rosie’s play dates, bills received, shopping…

Sure enough, there was a list marked _Places to look for Christmas Trees-_ three shopping centres, one farmer’s market, three Christmas tree lots, and two chop-your-own places were listed. Sherlock reckoned Mrs. Hudson was correct in saying that most shopping centres and tree lots would be closed by now. And it was far too dark to be chopping your own.

_But that’s the only thing that makes sense, the chop-your-own sites. Could he possibly have had that much trouble getting a tree? Could the truck have broken down? But if it had, why didn’t he call? Unless something…._

“Oh, dear lord,” he exclaimed.

“What’s that?” Lestrade asked as he re-entered the room.

“I was just, ah…thinking. What if something has happened that’s prevented him from coming home…or even communicating with us? If he was on his own at one of those tree farms… I mean….” He didn’t finish.

“Well he’s not at, nor has he been, at any of the local hospitals,” Lestrade stated. “Did you find a list?”

“Yes. And I propose we skip the shopping centres and lots and head right to the tree farms. And if he is not at one of those….”

“Well, Sherlock lets check those out first. How many are there.”

“He’s got two listed. Asher’s Cut-Your-Own, and another with the ridiculous name of Benjie Bottomly’s Beauties.”

“Ah, old Benjie!” Lestrade smiled. I know the bloke well. Cheerful little man. And yes, I believe I know exactly where that tree farm of his is. Out on the old tannery road. Shall we check that out first?”

“I’ll get my coat.”

“And you’d best put on a pair of warm boots, or at the very least some wellies. If we end up having to knock about in the woods, shoes won’t cut it.”

“Agreed. Mrs. Hudson,” he yelled to the kitchen, “do you know…”

The lady cut him off as she appeared with the tea tray. “They’re in the small closet in the basement, Sherlock. Snow boots _and_ wellies. And there are wool socks in John’s top drawer. But here, drink your tea first. Warm you up a bit before you head out. And I’ll call Molly and let her know.”

The two men quickly gulped down their tea, and Sherlock dashed off to retrieve his outerwear.

“I’ll wait for you in my vehicle. Thankfully, I came in the Jeep. If we do have to drive into the snow, we should be fine.”

The pair were on the road within five minutes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
